


Simply Harleen

by MorbidOptimist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Ficlet, One Shot, Role Reversal, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidOptimist/pseuds/MorbidOptimist
Summary: An anon once asked, what if Harleen was the supervillain, and Harley was the alter-ego? What would Pamala Isley think? What would Poison Ivy do?





	Simply Harleen

It wasn’t difficult for Dr. Isley to hire a temporary tender of her houseplants for her fatefully brief study abroad; Harley Quinn was an odd girl, a little quiet, a little nervous, but she held a bountiful optimism and determination and she was a med student desperately in need of a spare room to crash. The trade had seemed simple. The company, pleasant. 

When Isley returned, she was no longer Pamala, but Poison. 

Harley Quinn was fascinated by her; perhaps to her own detriment.

She was a good friend, and though Ivy found Harley’s pranks and childish antics frustrating and naive, she wouldn’t deny that the slight tether to normalcy, to humanity, was something she very much needed. 

Harley was a true friend. 

A true…

Partner.

She didn't question the late night excursions and harshly worded newspapers; she didn’t mind the vines, the wildling greens, the changes, the moodswings.  

When Ivy was incapable of lifting herself from her mossbed, Harley was there, petting her hair, cracking jokes & sharing stories, lending her natural strength so that she could have a sturdy support to cling too.  

Ivy tried to return the support, the affection, the romantic intent, in kind. 

She was… possessive, maybe. 

Protective, she felt, at least. 

She tried to keep the girl out of her unlawful habits, but the girl was insistent, smart, and terribly good at petulant psychological manipulation. 

She simply couldn’t stand it, watching the girl cry. 

Harley reminded her of her humanity, of the beauty lingering in the natural world, of the casualties of man. 

Gotham was just so dangerous, so corrupt; Ivy worried that any day, and night, would be the moment that Harley would walk out into a nightmare and return to her, a changed, broken thing. 

It was such a thought that plagued her, one night, lying in bed with the bottle-blonde sleeping peacefully in her flowering arms, that Ivy decided she couldn’t risk it. 

She couldn't keep the girl locked up in her greenhouse forever, as much as she desperately wanted to, not when Harley begged and pleaded with her to let her help her, and the others in the city; to let live her life to its fullest as full-fledged doctor at Arkham wherein she might be able to help Ivy from the inside out. No, looking into those large, soulful blue eyes, Ivy knew she couldn’t deny her. 

But she could  _prepare_ her, at least. 

Harley was delighted, the morning after, hearing the news. 

Ivy was unrelenting. 

Harley was dedicated. 

It was weeks of studious, rigorous training, both mental and physical.

Harley Quinn, would not exist. At least, not singularly, anymore. 

The young blonde entered Arkham a cold-hearted, steely-gazed, Harleen Quinzell. 

She did her job at a professional arm’s length, and built up a reputation for herself as being fair, but somewhat apathetic. Just as planned. 

She learned all various points and weakness of the inmates, as well as of the other doctors, the janitors, and continuing staff.

The inmates, sensed something off about her the moment she set foot inside their doors. 

They recognized her as one of their own.  

They tried to claim her, to twist her into their own perverse causes, but Harleen was impenetrable, and not even the clown prince himself, could inflict any sway over the young woman. 

So when one night, it finally happened that one Poison Ivy should arrive, battered and defeated by the hands of the Gotham’s Dark Night, the inhabitants of Arkham expected the femme fatale to receive equal treatment. 

And she did. 

Harleen was punctual, prudent, and polite; but she was thorough, to the point that Ivy was certain the doctor had ever forgotten the shy, naive little girl that she had once known. 

 She shouldn’t have doubted her, however. 

Harleen had played her, outplayed them all. 

The break out was precise, orchestrated; Harleen had never seemed so terrifying. 

They left Arkham quietly, without alarms or sirens or fuss. 

When they made it back to Ivy’s apartment, Ivy pulled the woman into her arms and kissed her as if no time had ever passed between them; as if no tests in Arkham had occurred, as if the words Harleen had said hadn’t stung. 

when she pulled back, she was mildly surprised that it was still Harleen who she was holding, and not Harley. 

“If we kill the Bat, he won’t be able to hurt you anymore. No one will be able to stop us, no one will touch us,” Harleen murmured, her spectacles glinting the light of the room dimmly; “No one will touch us ever again.”

Ivy wasn’t quite sure if she was petrified, or in love. 

She was used to creating monsters, Ivy just hadn’t expected to grow one that wasn’t green. 


End file.
